Siege of Arkngthunch Sturdumz
by Nakraf
Summary: A mercenary, a battlemage, and a thief, against the armies of Molag Bal. This does not bode well.
1. Fate Smiles on the Khajiit

(Author's notes: This story is completely independent of my Twin Nerevarines story, so don't expect Varansaur and Oreotragus to make any more than a passing cameo.)

**CHAPTER ONE**

The mighty statue of Molag Bal, god of schemes, towered over the throng of worshippers below. The statue's granite eyes, set in a massive dragon-shaped head, did little to reflect the sheer malice of the god it represented. The worshippers were all Dunmer men, dressed in identical green robes and sporting identical flat, black haircuts. The one exception was a Dunmer woman, wearing a red and gold robe with grey hair tied up in a bun. As the other worshippers fell to their knees before the statue, she approached the pedestal, a limeware tray of various precious jewels in her hands.

She raised the tray over her head and shouted "Praise be to Molag Bal, greatest of the Daedric sixteen!"

"_Praise be to Molag Bal, greatest of the Daedric sixteen!" _the other worshippers repeated.

"_Cess_ _roht yoodt seht hekem!_ _Ayem lyr-lyr!_" the woman shrieked

"_Roht_ _yoodt lyr ekhem!_" the men shouted in reply.

As the worshippers watched the woman slide the tray between the statue's massive clawed feet, they failed to notice a dark figure emerge from behind a torch. If they had, they would've seen that the figure, although dressed entirely in black fatigues, was clearly Khajiit. His pointed ears and long, feline tail were clearly visible. His green eyes reflected the firelight like mirrors, which was probably because he had tiny mirrors on the lenses of his eyes to enhance his night vision.

None of the worshippers noticed him as he crept along the wall to the back of the shrine. But something did. The Khajiit's large ears picked up the sound of something running towards him. He quickly turned his head to the left and saw a creature sprinting in his direction. With its giant ears, stiff tail, and small yet potentially deadly claws and fangs, it was very obviously a scamp, the lowest of the Daedric summons. It was weak, but could probably severely maim an inexperienced traveler. Fortunately for the Khajiit, he wasn't inexperienced. As the scamp leapt at him, he slashed with his huge claws. The scamp dropped to the floor with a guttural hiss, with four large slash wounds across its throat leaving no doubt as to how it had met its fate.

Worried that someone may have heard the scuffle, the Khajiit dove behind a rock. He tentatively peeked out from behind it. No, the worshippers were too mesmerized by the flames that were now shooting from the statue's fanged mouth to have noticed him. This suited him nicely, as he didn't think he could take them all on at once.

The Khajiit turned, jumped on top of a wooden chest, and inserted one of his claws into the lock. Within seconds, he heard it give way. He jumped to the floor and opened the chest. Inside was a pure white mace.

"At last," the Khajiit whispered, lifting the weapon from the chest, "the Mace of Molag Bal. Now, S'Ravha's collection is complete!" S'Ravha always referred to himself in third person, as the Khajiiti language had no word for "I" or "me".

At that moment, he heard a harsh, yet feminine, voice shout "Die, fetcher!" from across the room. Spinning around, S'Ravha saw the worshippers of Molag Bal all looking at him, with the woman holding a giant red and black spear.

"How did you know S'Ravha was here?"

"Our lord, Molag Bal, told us," the woman replied. "And now," she said, as the men all drew their swords in unison, "at his behest, you will die!"

S'Ravha quickly tucked the mace inside his fatigues, knowing that Molag Bal would not be likely to allow him to use it against his own followers. He then pressed an emerald in the center of a ring on his left index finger and, in a plume of green smoke, completely vanished from sight.

What happened next, not even S'Ravha could explain. A lapse in attention in the middle of a job was so unbecoming of a thief of his prowess. Possibly it was caused by the fact that he was enjoying sneaking, invisible, past the confused mob that had been so intent on killing him. Perhaps it was the excitement of having captured the Mace of Molag Bal, the final piece necessary to complete his collection of famous Daedric artifacts. Or maybe it had been the influence of Molag Bal himself, upset at the loss of his legendary mace. But whatever the reason, S'Ravha failed to notice the scamp, that he himself had slain not a minute ago, until he had tripped over it, smearing the front of his otherwise invisible body with scamp blood and making a loud, wet, splat that alerted everyone in the shrine to his exact location.

"There he is!" the woman shouted. "Kill him!"

S'Ravha tried to regain his feet, but the scamp blood on the floor proved to be more slippery than anything he had ever fallen in before, and he quickly found himself surrounded by angry, sword-rattling Molag Bal worshippers. It seemed hopeless.

It was at that moment, however, that a loud "crack!" echoed through the shrine. A very tall woman had suddenly appeared on the statue's pedestal. She was dressed in a dark blue robe with gold trim. Her golden skin reflected the firelight almost as much as S'Ravha's eyes, and her white hair seemed red in the light of the flickering torches. She was clearly an Altmer, a high elf.

Her light green eyes narrowed as she stared directly at the Dunmer woman. "Relthasa Noren."

Noren glared back. "Anterriel."

"So, you thought you could hide from the Mages' Guild in here, eh? No necromancer disgraces the guild and gets away with it!"

"Not until today," Noren said, tossing her spear at Anterriel like a javelin. The Altmer sidestepped the spear, which struck the tray and scattered the gems all over the floor, revealing that there had been a human heart buried underneath them.

Just as the rubies hit the floor, the crooked, ovoid door to the shrine burst open. A tall man with long-blond hair charged into the room, wildly swinging a mighty two-headed axe. He had a blue bear paw painted on the left side of his face. His armor was heavy and clunky, which made him look more like a runaway boulder than a warrior. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and said; "I'm here for Stoncien Draconius."

One of the worshippers stepped forward. "There is nobody here by that name, Nord."

The Nord held up a gold ring. "I found his ring outside the shrine. The Imperial Legion knows you've kidnapped him. Give him to me alive, and nobody will get hurt."

S'Ravha chose that moment to break free of the worshippers that were holding him. As he jumped clear of the crowd, one of the worshippers grabbed him by the ankle. S'Ravha reached out to steady himself, and inadvertently grabbed the lid of a giant stone chest. The lid flipped back, revealing the contents of the chest: a bald human corpse. His chest had been cut open, and his heart was missing.

The Nord took a step back. "Draconius…dead!" His eyes darted back and forth between the man in the chest and the heart on the floor. "Dirty lying _murderers!!_" He raised his axe over his head and charged the mob, which quickly scattered.

"You seem pretty coarse for a Legion member," Anterriel said, as she conjured a fireball and tossed it in Noren's direction.

"I'm not a guard," the Nord said. "I'm a mercenary."

S'Ravha smirked. Fate had smiled upon him this day. Between the Altmer battlemage and the Nord mercenary, the worshippers were a little too preoccupied to stop S'Ravha from dashing out the door, and taking the Mace of Molag Bal with him.

(Yes, it be short. Reviews would be greatly appreciated.)


	2. Barroom Brawl

(Oh yeah, the disclaimer. Uh…I don't think there are going to be very many characters that I don't own, except for the Daedra. But I don't own Morrowind, or any of the locations.)

**CHAPTER 2**

Kjarl stood, breathing heavily, amongst the bodies of several dozen former worshippers of Molag Bal. They had killed an important Imperial knight and cut out his heart. Many of them were now dead, by his axe. One had escaped, just behind what had seemed to be a Khajiit in black fatigues. The apparent leader, the one woman in the group of worshippers, dressed in a red and gold robe, had been brought down by a fireball that an Altmer battlemage had conjured.

Kjarl turned to the battlemage. "What about you?"

The Altmer shrugged. "I'm just here for Noren." She pointed at the singed body of the Dunmer woman on the floor. "She used to be one of the Mages' Guild's brightest stars. Then she betrayed us, turning to necromancy and making us all look bad."

Kjarl raised an eyebrow. "And that was cause to kill her?"

The Altmer gave him a wry smile. "As a mercenary, I didn't think you'd care."

Kjarl snorted. "I don't know what mercenaries are like where you come from, but we're not all about killing. We're about whatever the people who hire us tell us to do. Admittedly, that usually involves killing…"

"So, what's your story?"

"Well," Kjarl said, wiping the blood from his axe, "the Imperial Legion hired me to find Stoncien Draconius, a very important Imperial knight, who they were fairly certain was being held captive here." He pointed to the body in the chest. "That would be him."

The Altmer leaned against the gigantic statue of Molag Bal that stood in the center of the shrine. "If you're just a mercenary, how do you know that's him?"

"I've worked for the Legion before," Kjarl replied. "We've met."

The Altmer began wrestling with the cork on a bottle labeled "Restore Magicka." "Oh," she said. "Sorry about your loss."

"Well," Kjarl said, tucking his axe into his belt, "to tell you the truth, the Legion kind of hated him. When he went missing, they initially weren't going to look for him, until the Emperor himself gave the order to find him."

The Altmer finally gave up on trying to remove the cork by hand, and decided to try and remove it with a sword. "We should probably get out of here before that one guy who escaped gets back with reinforcements."

"Good idea," Kjarl replied. "Besides, Molag Bal probably wouldn't be too happy if we hung out here much longer."

"From what I understand, Molag Bal is never really happy."

Kjarl began to laugh, unaware that the statue's eyes seemed to be following him as he headed towards the door.

"By the way," the Altmer said, extending her hand. "I'm Anterriel."

"Kjarl," Kjarl said.

**X X X **(this site doesn't support asterisks, for some reason)

Kjarl sat down at the counter of The Eight Plates, the local pub in the city of Balmora. The barmaid, a Dunmer woman in a yellow skirt, leaned on the counter. All Dunmer had red eyes, but hers seemed to glow with a warmth that none of the others seemed to possess.

"Evening, Kjarl," she said. "What'll it be?"

"Mazte," he said, flatly. "And put it in a tall mug."

"Daring today, aren't we?"

"I need to forget something," he groaned, laying his forehead on the counter.

The barmaid slid a tall, frothy mug in front of him. He drained half of it in one gulp. He hated his life right now. Draconius was dead. The Emperor would not be happy, and would punish the Legion for waiting so long to hire somebody to find him, and Varus Vantinius, Knight of the Imperial Dragon, would surely find some way of putting the blame on Kjarl. That was his way. Whenever it was his fault, it was his subordinates' fault. Kjarl closed his eyes and put his head on the table, trying to concentrate on something else. The first image that formed in his mind was of an Altmer. There was no mistaking the gold skin and almost white hair. The Altmer was a woman…in a dark blue robe with gold trim…her eyes were very light green…there was something familiar about her. Maybe Kjarl would've been able to place it if there was just a little less alcohol in his system…

He was jerked from his half-sleep by the sound of a stool scraping across the floor next to him.

"Ah, S'Ravha," the barmaid said. "You're back in one piece, I see. How did it go?"

Kjarl looked up. A Khajiit had taken a seat next to him. The Khajiit was dressed entirely in black fatigues. His hood was pulled down, revealing a pair of lamp-like green eyes, and enough unkempt reddish-brown hair to make him seem almost lion-like.

The Khajiit opened his shirt and pulled out the handle of something white. "S'Ravha thinks it went quite well. Though, S'Ravha would've died, were it not for the arrival of an Altmer battlemage and a Nord mercenary. They distracted them, giving S'Ravha time to escape." S'Ravha slid the white thing back inside his shirt. It was then that he noticed Kjarl. "In fact," he said, "S'Ravha thinks this man is the mercenary."

Kjarl thought long and hard about what the Khajiit was talking about. "A Daedric shrine, near Tel Aruhn? Several dozen people worshipping Molag Bal?"

"That is the place. You were upset that they had killed somebody."

"Yes," Kjarl said. "And you were the one who opened the chest where they had stashed the body."

Just then, S'Ravha's ears started twitching. He spun around, and his eyes widened. Kjarl turned to see what he was looking at. Two men in green cloaks were advancing on them.

"So it was you," one of them said. He had a very gruff, throaty voice. He threw back his hood, revealing that he was a Dunmer, and that he had a very flat haircut. "You are responsible for the death of Relthasa Noren. You have disgraced Molag Bal. And now, we will disgrace you!" He drew a long, black sword from his belt. Everyone else in the tavern set their drinks down in unison and ran out the door.

"Gentlemen!" the barmaid shouted. "I am trying to run a respectable establishment here, and I will not tolerate any fighting in…"

The other man grabbed a nearby bottle of brandy and smashed it over her head. The barmaid slumped to the floor.

Kjarl drew his axe. "I handled an entire shrine full of you guys. The two of you shouldn't be much trouble."

The two cloaked men raised their hands and began chanting in unison. "_Doht__ roht ekhem meht oht roht ayem!_"

With a bright yellow flash, two new beings appeared next to the men. Each was built like a man itself, but its skin was red and black, and seemed hard as ebony. Their eyes were red and soulless. Each had a red goatee, a small horn over each eye, and a large spiked club in its right hand.

Kjarl lowered his axe slightly. "Dremoras. Lovely."

The dremoras howled with rage and brought their clubs smashing down on the counter, as Kjarl jumped to the side, knocking over S'Ravha's stool in the process. By that point, however, the Khajiit had already jumped onto the counter and assumed a fighting position. The dremoras moved to either side of the Nord on the floor and raised their clubs…just as S'Ravha threw a pair of large, heavy tankards at their heads. The dremoras shook their heads, turned, and ran towards S'Ravha, who jumped over their heads, clunked them together, and landed on his feet on a table behind them. The dremoras staggered around for a few seconds, trying to clear their heads, which gave Kjarl the time he needed to regain his feet. He turned to the nearest dremora and swung his axe at the space between its soft, vulnerable neck and the right shoulder in a move he normally used when fighting heavily armored opponents. Unfortunately, the dremora chose that moment to turn, so that his massive pauldron deflected the axe. The flat of the blade hit him in the cheek. Enraged, the dremora turned on Kjarl, swinging his club and smashing furniture. S'Ravha jumped to the floor, dropped to one knee, and swept his other leg in a wide arc, tripping the dremora and causing him to fall, throat-first, onto Kjarl's axe.

The other dremora picked up a chair with one hand and tossed it, effortlessly, at Kjarl's head. Kjarl swung his axe like a baseball bat, splintering the chair. S'Ravha grabbed a flying piece of leg and shoved it down the dremora's throat. The dremora gagged, dropped its club, and fell to is knees, putting it in the perfect position for Kjarl to behead it.

The two men in cloaks looked at the two slain dremoras, which were starting to fade into Oblivion from whence they had been summoned, and ran, screaming, from the tavern.

"Wow," Kjarl said, looking at the black blood on the edge of his axe. How long had he managed to keep it clean today? Three hours?

The barmaid slowly stood up, looked at the half-vanished dremoras and the splintered furniture, and passed out again.

"I don't normally fight that well when I'm drunk," Kjarl said.

"No," S'Ravha replied sharpening his claws on a dagger that seemed too small to be good for anything other than sharpening claws. "You weren't really that good this time. Not compared to when S'Ravha saw you fighting in the shrine. S'Ravha thinks that without his help, you would be dead."

Kjarl grabbed S'Ravha by the shirt and lifted him above his head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," S'Ravha said, his smile never flickering, "that without S'Ravha's help, you would be dead. It means exactly what it sounds like."

"That's what I thought it meant," Kjarl said. He tossed S'Ravha aside and turned back to the bar, sitting down on the one un-broken stool.

S'Ravha rebounded off the wall and landed on his feet next to Kjarl. "You are a very strange man."

"I'm drunk." Kjarl said flatly. "That's what happens when I'm drunk."

"Is this how all mercenaries celebrate victory in battle? Go to a tavern far from the battle and get drunk?"

Kjarl rolled his eyes. "Some victory. Three days travel, haggling over silt strider prices and fighting off those damned blight creatures, only to find that the man they're paying me to rescue has been sacrificed to Molag Bal. Now I have to tell the Knight of the Imperial Dragon that we waited too long to go after him. Wheee."

"This Knight of the Imperial Dragon…he does not take failure well?"

"That's an understatement if I ever heard one. Because I was the one on the payroll for his rescue, I'm going to end up getting the blame." Kjarl sighed and lifted his mug to drink the rest of his mazte, only to find it had been spilled in the fight. He sighed again. "Guess I'd better face the music." He got up and headed towards the door. S'Ravha followed him. "Where are you going?" Kjarl asked him.

"Anywhere but here," S'Ravha said, pulling up his hood, so that only his eyes and ears were visible. "S'Ravha does not want to be here when the barmaid wakes up."

**X X X**

"Well," Kjarl said when they were out on the street again, "it's been fun. Hopefully, the next time you hear my name, it won't be in an obituary."

"S'Ravha does not even know your name."

"Ah, yes, that would make it hard to know if you were reading my name in an obituary or not. I am Kjarl. I believe I already know your name." With that, Kjarl began to head off down the road.

"Wait!" S'Ravha called after him.

"Look," Kjarl called back, without turning around, "I'd love to stay and chat, but Vantinius will kill me even more thoroughly if I delay in telling him what happened."

"No," S'Ravha shouted, "that's not what S'Ravha meant…" but it was too late. In a flash of green, the two men who had summoned the dremoras had appeared from an alley, grabbed Kjarl by the arms, and dragged him back into the alley.

S'Ravha shook his head. "S'Ravha isn't sure why he's doing this…" With that, he cracked his knuckles and sprinted to the alley. When he got there, he saw the two men nailing the lid down on a wooden crate. The crate seemed to be moving on its own accord.

"I don't know why we don't just kill him now and get it over with," one man said.

"You know perfectly well that Molag Bal demands all who disgrace him to this magnitude to be burned alive inside a wooden crate," the other one reprimanded.

Silently, S'Ravha flexed his fingers, crouched, and pounced, claws extended, hoping to use the arguing Dunmer to mask his attack. But at the last possible second, one of the Dunmer turned around and very casually raised his hammer and brought it crashing down just above S'Ravha's right eye.

S'Ravha's head nearly exploded with pain. He fell short of his attack, hit the pavement shoulder-first, and rolled into the adobe wall. He struggled to retain his grasp on consciousness, but couldn't. The last thing he saw was a pair of large, ash-colored hands reaching for him…


	3. Fire and Ice

**CHAPTER 3**

Anterriel watched as Kjarl squeezed the amulet around his neck. He was instantly enveloped in white light and vanished to the gods knew where. The Altmer was now alone in the shrine, except for the bodies of the various worshippers of Molag Bal scattered all over the ground, and what appeared to be a scamp that was afraid to come out of the shadows. But as she took a closer look, she realized that she wasn't as alone as she had initially thought. The center of the room was dominated by a three-story statue of the god Molag Bal, and it was said that these statues were the Daedra's view ports to the world of the living. She was certain Molag Bal would not appreciate what had transpired. She folded her hands as though in prayer and muttered the incantation to transport her back to the Balmora Mages' Guild.

**X X X**

Ranis Athrys, head of the Balmora branch of the Vvardenfell Mages' Guild, looked up from her detailed plans to bring about the gruesome demise of someone who had disgraced the Guild at the sound of someone recalling into the foyer of the guildhall. The white magical lights swirled together into a humanoid form. There was a bright flash, and an Altmer woman appeared. She was wearing a blue robe with gold trim and looked as though she had just witnessed a massacre.

"Anterriel," Athrys said. "You're alive…I mean, you're back."

"Yes," Anterriel said. "I'm back. And you'll be happy to know that Relthasa Noren will no longer bother us."

"Then she's dead. Good. Did she give you any trouble?"

Anterriel's bright green eyes narrowed. "No," she said, flatly. "She just stood there and let me set her on fire. And the three dozen other followers were a bit too dead to interfere."

"What do you mean, dead?" Athrys asked, sounding disturbingly enthusiastic about the D word, and apparently not noticing Anterriel's crack about Noren not fighting back.

"Apparently, this particular cult's been getting on a lot of people's bad sides lately. They kidnapped some member of the Imperial Legion, and so the Legion sent a mercenary to get him back. But, by the time he got there, they had sacrificed their kidnapee to Molag Bal, so he hacked them into little pieces." The corners of her mouth began to creep upwards. "Not bad looking, either, for a human. The mercenary, I mean, not the sacrifice. I could've done without the tattoo on his face, but he had nice hair, and he was strong, and well-spoken…"

"And he hacked them into little pieces," Athrys said, now staring wistfully into space.

Anterriel gave Athrys a scared, sideways glance. "Okay, you're just sick. Just give me my money so I can get out of here."

**X X X**

Anterriel walked out onto the balcony of the Mages' Guild. A couple more jobs like this, and she could afford to get out of the Mages' Guild for good. Maybe she could even move back to Summerset Isle. She couldn't remember at the moment why she had ever left, only that someone had said something about Morrowind having more use for her talents than her own home. If she ever got home, she would find whoever that person was and set him on fire.

Her train of thought broke there, however, when she heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. It was then that she realized she had fallen asleep on her feet. She walked over to the edge of the balcony to see two Dunmer men in green robes forcing the lid down on a wildly protesting crate.

"I don't know why we don't just kill him now and get it over with," one man said.

"You know perfectly well that Molag Bal demands all who disgrace him to this magnitude to be burned alive inside a wooden crate," the other reprimanded.

Anterriel was barely aware of movement out of the corner of her eye, before a Khajiit-looking figure in black fatigues appeared behind the Dunmer, claws extended. Before Anterriel could react, one of the Dunmer took a hammer from his belt, spun around, and hit the Khajiit squarely in the face. The Khajiit bent in half and slammed into the wall of the Mages' guild. The Dunmer grabbed him by the fatigues and threw him into a second crate. They then took two glass vials from their robes and began splashing the contents on the crates, all the while chanting "_Meht_ _oht lyr ayem geth, bedt ayem lyr."_

"_Murder!" _Anterriel shrieked, causing the Dunmer to drop the vials in surprise. "Murder behind the Mages' Guild!" She turned to the Dunmer, which were looking daggers at her. "That's right," she said, as the sound of guards' boots became louder. "Try getting revenge in front of the guards!"

One of the Dunmer held his hand towards the crates and shouted "_Hefhed_ _iya roht ekhem!_" A small fireball shot from his fingers and hit the crates. Anterriel now realized that the vials must have contained oil, as the crates burst into flames. There was no way the guards could get there in time to save whoever was inside the crates. She would have to take matters into her own hands…again.

"_Iya_ _cess ekhem,_" Anterriel hissed, pointing at the flaming crates. A jet of ice shot from her finger, neatly extinguishing the blaze. She then had to drop to her stomach as two large fireballs shot past her ear. These guys meant business. She'd have to get down there. If she went through the Guildhall, though, Ranis Athrys would surely intercept her and make her settle some unpleasant score for her. There was only one option. "I hope this works," she said to herself, as she pointed to her feet and whispered the incantation.

She wasn't entirely sure at first if the spell had worked. Her strengths were in the schools of destruction and mysticism, not alteration. But when she stood up and put her foot over the balcony, she felt it rest on something solid, even though there was clearly nothing supporting her. She then attempted to use the levitation spell to lower herself into the alley. Unfortunately, her concentration was broken by one of the Dunmer tossing another fireball her way, and she fell the rest of the way to the stone street.

Groaning, Anterriel picked herself off the road and turned to the Dunmer, who drew long ebony swords and moved towards her. She held her hands in a spellcasting stance and began to hiss "_Hefhed_ _iya…_"

But in that short period of time, one of the Dunmer managed to shout "_Seht_ _iya lyr ekhem neht cess ekhem!_" Anterriel had foolishly chosen to try for a large fireball, which required the spell to be said slowly, giving her assailant time to hit her in the throat with a green spell. Anterriel tried to complete her spell, but the words failed to leave her mouth, and the warm air pocket between her hands vanished.

"Oh dear," one of the Dunmer said in a mocking voice. "A mute mage! Whatever shall we do?"

"Nice try with that fireball spell there," the other one said, "but I think something got lost in translation. Like your voice!" With that he swung his sword at Anterriel's head. In a flash of silver, another sword whipped from Anterriel's robe and blocked his attack.

The Dunmer who had attacked Anterriel began to back away slowly. "Oh crap. She's a battlemage."

"So?" his companion shouted. "There's two of us, and only one of her, and we have a sworn duty to Molag Bal! Kill her!"

The Dunmer raised their swords, charged Anterriel…and stopped suddenly as their swords dropped to the pavement with a loud clang, the fingers that had been grasping them neatly severed by Anterriel's sword. The Altmer held the flat of the blade of her sword to her face and gave her assailants a look that said "If you value your skins, you will be gone from Balmora before that silence spell wears off."

The Dunmer began to back up, almost ready to comply with Anterriel's unspoken threat, until they walked into the crates. This seemed to remind them of their duty, as they suddenly stood back-to-back, held out their uninjured hands, and shouted "_Hefhed_ _iya roht ekhem!_" A fireball shot passed Anterriel, while another one ignited the crates once more. However, it was at that moment that Anterriel became aware of a loud banging sound coming from inside one of the crates, which had actually been going on for at least a minute. The banging continued until the blade of a battle axe popped through the side of the crate. The axe blade extracted itself, only to be replaced by a metal boot, which kicked a rather large hole in the crate. A pair of iron gauntlets began pulling bits of wood away, until the burning crate fell apart, revealing a very angry, and strangely familiar looking, Nord.

"Nobody…and I mean _nobody…_burns Kjarl alive!" he roared. He swung his axe at the nearest Dunmer, who raised his arm to block the axe with his sword. Too late he remembered that he didn't have his sword anymore, and by that time, Kjarl's axe had become securely lodged in his arm bone and thrown him against the wall. Seeing this, the other Dunmer turned and ran…straight into the point of Anterriel's sword.

With the caster of the silence spell dead, Anterriel was now free to use another ice spell to extinguish the other crate, while Kjarl finished off the first Dunmer. He then turned to the now wet crate and split it open with his axe. Anterriel walked over to the crate and extracted the unconscious Khajiit inside.

"We really must stop meeting like this," she said to Kjarl as she laid the Khajiit on the ground.

"What are you talking about?" Kjarl mumbled. He seemed to be suffering a bit from the smoke inhalation, although there was a distinct slur to his words, and Anterriel was sure she smelled mazte on his breath.

"You don't remember?" she said. "A Daedric ruin, just outside of Tel Aruhn. These guys killed someone in the Legion…I think you said his name was Stoncien Draconius…I killed their leader, and you killed the rest."

Kjarl stared at Anterriel for a long time. "Oh yeah," he finally said. "Anterriel, right?"

Anterriel smiled. "You seemed a bit more…I think 'eloquent' is the word I'm looking for…back in the shrine."

"I wasn't drunk back in the shrine," Kjarl said.

At that moment, three city guards rushed into the alley, maces drawn. "What's going on in here?" one of them demanded.

Kjarl pointed to one of the slain Dunmer on the ground. "These fetchers tried to burn me alive, that's what happened!"

"And by the way," Anterriel said sarcastically, "thanks _ever _so much for taking your sweet time in getting here."

The guards didn't say anything. They didn't move. They didn't even shift their weight.

"Are you all right?" Anterriel asked, going up to one of the guards. She peered inside the visor of his helmet…and swiftly recoiled. Traditionally, the guards in Balmora were Dunmer, but there was something strangely different about this one. He had a voice like a Dunmer, but the tiny bit of his face Anterriel had seen through the visor seemed golden, closer to her own skin tone. "You're an Altmer?"

The guard shook his head. "Not quite." He took off his helmet. He wasn't a Dunmer or an Altmer. He also wasn't a Bosmer, Nord, Redguard, Imperial, Breton, Orc, Khajiit or Argonian. In fact, he wasn't even a he. No, this guard definitely had a woman's face. But her skin was very golden, even more than any Altmer. Even her eyes were golden. Under her guard helmet, she was wearing another helmet, with wings, that was the same color as her skin.

"A golden saint!" Kjarl said. Even in his intoxicated state, he recognized the highest of the Lesser Daedra.

The Golden Saint smiled, nodded, and replied, but its voice now sounded like a bizarre series of metallic hums and buzzes. Anterriel could now see the inside of the guard helmet, and there seemed to be a small device attached to the inside, which had apparently made its voice sound like a male Dunmer.

Kjarl bent to pick up his axe. "You guys don't know when to quit, do you?" He raised his axe over his head. "Tell Molag Bal he can have me when boars grow wings and Mehrunes Dagon sits on the throne of Tamriel!"

"Molag Bal did not send us!" one of the other guards shouted, confirming what Anterriel already suspected: that all three of these guards were Golden Saints in disguise.

"Our master sent us to find you," the third "guard" said. "He would speak with you on a very important matter."

Anterriel looked at Kjarl. Kjarl looked at Anterriel. They both looked at S'Ravha, who still had not regained consciousness. They turned to look at the Golden Saints. Anterriel opened her mouth to speak. The Golden Saints, however, did not wait for a response. They raised their right hands in unison and touched the rings on their middle fingers. A red beam shot out of each one and hit Anterriel, Kjarl, and S'Ravha. Anterriel and Kjarl dropped their weapons, sunk to their knees, and fell to the ground. S'Ravha, who was already unconscious, was not affected. The Golden Saints stepped forward and picked up the dropped weapons. Each one grabbed one of their unconscious quarry around the waist. The one holding Kjarl took his recall amulet, slipped it over its own head, and joined hands with the other two. It squeezed the amulet, and with a bright white flash, all six of them vanished.

In the alley across the street, three Balmora city guards, sitting in their underwear, tied to each other, with their socks shoved in their mouths, made a silent vow that if anyone asked, this entire day never happened.


	4. Oblivion

CHAPTER 4

**Location: **Coldharbour, Oblivion

**Weather: **Cold, dark

**Date: **Ah, who am I kidding? Time has no meaning in Oblivion.

The mighty statue of Molag Bal, god of schemes, towered over the throng of worshippers below. But these worshippers were covered in bloody axe wounds, bound in heavy cords, and being tormented by storm atronachs, so they were in no position to worship Molag Bal.

The real Molag Bal closed the door to the cave and began to stalk across Oblivion. Why he had ever chosen Coldharbour as his personal plane eluded him nowadays. The place looked almost exactly like Tamriel, only the entire place was cold, dark and ruined. "Ah well," he said to himself. "At least it's better than the rest of the House of Troubles." Indeed, of the four Daedric princes, Molag Bal did seem to have the best plane. Mehrunes Dagon's was a hellish world of black earth, red sky, flesh-eating plants, and rivers of lava. Malacath lived in an expansive realm of dust, vapor, and nothingness that even he had difficulty traversing at times. And Sheogorath…well, there wasn't much you could say about Sheogorath. Sheogorath's Madhouse was a colorful land with talking animals, giant living chess sets and playing cards, and men with giant hats that drank tea with rabbits and mice.

Molag Bal arrived at the Coldharbour version of the Temple of the One in the Imperial City. Aside from the fact that the entire place was cracked, covered in ivy, and completely devoid of human life, the most obvious difference between this place and the real Temple of the One was the statues that supported the legendary Dragonifres. On Tamriel, these were in the image of the dragon god Akatosh; here, they had been twisted to look more like Molag Bal, and weren't lit. Molag Bal shrunk himself so he could walk through the door. Inside, a Dunmer woman in a red and gold robe was being prodded in the back with a spear by a Clannfear. She looked up at the sound of the door opening. "My lord!" she cried. "I…"

Molag Bal shot a fireball from his nostril at the woman. "Enough! I gave you a simple task. Kill some Legion members, cut out their hearts, and sacrifice them to me so I can use their souls for my army! But you couldn't even complete the first sacrifice!" He looked down at the woman, who had been consumed by the fireball, along with the Clannfear. She was already dead, however, so there wasn't much the fireball could do to her. "I have given you three chances, Noren. Every time, you have failed to even begin to complete even the simplest task!" With a snap of his massive clawed fingers, a gigantic fissure opened up in the floor and swallowed Relthasa Noren.

The god then left the Temple and headed north, into the Coldharbour Morrowind. He stopped at Red Mountain, which looked exactly like its real-world counterpart, only colder. In the center of the volcano's crater, numerous souls were being stored in the lava. Molag Bal reached a gigantic hand into the lava and scooped out what looked like a small, green version of himself, only without horns or a tail.

The Daedroth looked up dejectedly at his master. "What more could you possibly do to me, master?"

Molag Bal grinned, which looked very creepy, given his reptilian head. "Menta Na. I assume you know why I had you sent back."

"You mean 'hired a random traveler to whack me?'"

"Indeed. But the important part is that you are here because you failed to do my bidding. I sent you to Tamriel to cause strife and chaos. Instead, you retreated to a cave and decided to study. You may have realized that your fellow souls in that crater had done similar things."

Menta Na bowed his head. There was no point in arguing his case before Molag Bal. "Yes, my lord."

"But you may have also noticed that I believe in second chances. You may not have heard, but I have some rather big plans, and I have decided that you get to be part of them. I don't suppose you've ever heard of the Nchunzdehark?"

Menta Na's head shot up.

"Apparently you have. Well I found it. And I want you to retrieve it for me. Do this, and I will reward you greatly, and may even be willing to forgive your latest transgression."

**X X X**

Anterriel regained consciousness almost as quickly as she had lost it. She turned to see three Golden Saints, no longer in disguise, pointing their rings at her, as well as Kjarl and the Khajiit, only now they were firing blue beams instead of red ones.

The Khajiit rubbed his head. "Ow. Where are we? What happened?"

Anterriel looked around the room. It appeared to be a makeshift Daedric shrine built in the basement of someone's house. In the center of the room, a balding man was kneeling before another giant granite statue. This one, however, didn't look anything like Molag Bal; rather, it had a distinctly Elven look to it. The figure was even balder than the man kneeling before it, leaning on a cane, and grinning broadly.

One of the Golden Saints walked over to the man and began speaking in its strange metallic way. Apparently, the man understood it perfectly, as he simply looked up, nodded, and got to his feet. He was an aging Breton man wearing a loud pink robe and no shoes. He walked over to his guests and nodded a greeting.

"It's about time you got here. What took you so long?"

The Khajiit rubbed his head again. "It is difficult to get somewhere when S'Ravha knows not where he is going or why. Or when S'Ravha is unconscious."

"First, you're gonna tell us what the hell's going on here," Kjarl snapped, still a bit groggy.

"Lord Sheogorath has called you here on very important business."

Anterriel exchanged a worried look with Kjarl. "We do not serve the god of madness."

The man smiled and walked over to what appeared to be three umbrella stands in the corner. "That's all right," he said cheerfully, taking the handles of two things protruding from the umbrella stands. "Then I guess you'll just have to die." The three Golden Saints produced long green halberds, seemingly from nowhere. The man pulled on the things he was holding, revealing them to be the handles of two massive katanas.

Kjarl gave a nervous chuckle and put his hand on Anterriel's shoulder. "Let…let's not be too hasty, Anterriel. I mean, I'm sure there's no harm in at least finding out what he wants."

"Splendid!" the man said, putting the katanas back in their holders. "Lord Sheogorath will speak to you now."

Anterriel, Kjarl and S'Ravha looked at each other, before slowly advancing towards the statue.

"Oh," the man said, "you can't speak to him _now._"

S'Ravha turned towards the man. "But you just said…"

"It's not raining," the man said, still smiling. "He only talks when it rains. He likes the rain."

There was a long, awkward silence. "Okay…" Kjarl finally said, turning towards the door. "Then I guess we'll just come back when it's raining."

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Outside," Anterriel said. "So we can tell when it rains."

"No you're not." The man's perpetually cheerful disposition was starting to become rather disturbing. "You're not going anywhere until Sheogorath commands it."

Kjarl wrung his hands. "Then just how the hell are we supposed to know if it's raining or not?"

"Anyone up for a game of charades?"

Anterriel put her hand over her eyes. This was going to be a very long day.


	5. Through the Drinking Glass

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"Wake up! Wake up, sleepies! It is time!"

S'Ravha groaned and rolled over in his rock-hard bed. The mad acolyte of Sheogorath had forced them to stay there for the past two days. In that time, they had passed the time by playing endless parlor games with the Breton, which quickly got annoying, as every time it was his turn for charades, he would always choose the same thing: "a lesser soul gem, a head of lettuce, and some yarn." Somehow, Anterriel and Kjarl had managed to keep each other from getting too bored. The Khajiit, however, was not so lucky.

"S'Ravha was just getting to the good part of his dream," he growled, still half asleep.

"The rain falls!" the priest shouted happily. "Lord Sheogorath wants to speak to you all! Right now!"

Kjarl sat up. "Well, it's about damn time!"

"Come," the priest said, grabbing the three travelers by the wrists and dragging them over to a wooden table in the corner of the shrine. Sitting on the table were three silver cups, and three deep silver bowls.

"You must drink!" the priest said.

S'Ravha picked up one of the cups. Whatever was inside the cup was giving off visible vapors and smelled like spoiled sujamma. And it was blue. "What is this?"

"You must drink!" the priest repeated.

S'Ravha looked at Anterriel and Kjarl. They shrugged. S'Ravha tentatively put the cup to his lips and drank the liquid inside. It actually didn't taste that bad. "Okay, now what must…"

S'Ravha was interrupted by a sudden wave of painful heat in his stomach. It felt like his entire digestive tract was on fire. He roared in pain and grabbed the edge of the table for support. From the looks on their faces, Anterriel and Kjarl seemed to be experiencing similar sensations. Almost as quickly as it had come, the burning disappeared, only to be replaced by a wave of nausea. S'Ravha clamped his paw over his mouth, and now understood what the bowls were for.

After the heaving stopped, S'Ravha felt perfectly normal. He was about to speak, when he became aware of a prickling sensation in his tongue. The prickling began to spread, until it encompassed all of his mouth, then his face, and finally his entire head. His vision began to swim in his head. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor, drooling and twitching.

The priest looked at the three unconscious people on the floor of the shrine and smiled wistfully. "I remember the first time _I_ spoke to Lord Sheogorath," he sighed, wiping away a tear of nostalgia.

**X X X**

S'Ravha opened his eyes. He was in a small room with dark walls. The only interesting thing in the room was a door that didn't even come up to his knee. A few seconds later, he was joined by Anterriel and Kjarl, who seemed to appear from nowhere.

Kjarl put a hand to his head. "Would someone care to explain what the hell just happened?"

"Lord Sheogorath can tell you all. But to get to him, you must pass through me."

The three mortals looked around for the source of the voice.

"Down here!"

S'Ravha looked down. The knob on the door was smiling up at him.

"Where are we?" Anterriel asked.

"Why, Oblivion, of course! Now if you want to get through me, you'll have to drink."

"No," S'Ravha said, definitively. "S'Ravha will not drink that again."

"Oh, this isn't 'the drink.' This drink makes you small enough to fit through me."

It was then that S'Ravha noticed he was leaning against a white table that he was certain hadn't been there before. On the table were three glass bottles. Each was clearly marked "POISON."

Kjarl glared at the doorknob. "How stupid do you think we are?"

"You came here, didn't you?"

Anterriel picked up one of the bottles. "This all seems like something out of a bad nursery fable," she said.

"Drink," The doorknob enthusiastically said, "or you'll be stuck in this room forever."

S'Ravha shook his head, sighed, and drank the contents of the bottle. With a sensation vaguely similar to having something physically sucked from your body, he watched the table shoot upwards, until he was about three inches tall.

Kjarl looked at himself. "A short Nord. We must never speak of this again."

"Well, at least now we can find out what this is all about," Anterriel said, starting towards the door.

"Oh yes, um…I forgot to mention something…I'm locked."

Kjarl stopped. "_What!?_"

The doorknob looked up. "Yes, and it would appear that you left the key on the table. But don't worry. I'm sure you'll think of something."

Anterriel held up left hand, fingers pointed upwards. "_Hefhed,_" she said, flatly. "_Iya. Roht. Ekhem._" A massive fireball appeared above her hand. She drew her arm back and threw it like a baseball. The doorknob began to laugh, sounding genuinely amused, before it exploded.

S'Ravha, Anterriel, and Kjarl walked through the smoldering doorway. In the middle of a massive field, which seemed to be inhabited entirely by inanimate objects that had grown limbs and faces, a massive, well-dressed elven figure was sitting, playing Solitaire. However, he seemed to have added a new component to the game – every so often, one of the cards would get up and randomly switch places with another. After a few seconds, he looked up.

"Oh good," he said. "You made it. I wasn't sure The Drink would work."

"Yeah," Kjarl said, "what was that stuff, anyway?"

The giant reclined in the grass. "Oh, just a little concoction I whipped up. I call it 'The Drink.' The first few test subjects were turned into goats, but I think I finally got the right mixture to temporarily transport the drinker's soul to Oblivion without killing his body."

Anterriel started. "You _think?_"

"Have you ever tried to remove a soul from a living body without killing the person? It's not easy."

"And just who do you think you are, to be playing with S'Ravha's soul?" S'Ravha growled.

The giant stood up, picked up a cane, and gave a bow. "Sheogorath, at your service. Or rather, you're at my service, since I pretty much rule the world in here. Minor detail."

The three were suddenly afraid to speak. They were in the presence of a Daedric Prince. This was not the time to say the wrong thing.

"Unfortunately," Sheogorath continued, "I have called you here on a most serious matter. You see, long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away…no, wait, that's the wrong story…hang on…ah yes! It _was_ a long time ago, back before the battle of Red Mountain. Back when the Dwemer lived in Morrowind. Even before Nerevar Indoril was born. The Dwemer, in their never ending quest to understand everything about everything, came across a most unusual device. They called it the Nchunzdehark."  
Anterriel cocked her head. Despite all her studies on the Dwemer, she had never heard those syllables used together in their language. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Sheogorath replied. "They just thought it sounded cool. Anyway, it soon became apparent that the Nchunzdehark was more dangerous than they had thought. Do you know why I had you drink The Drink?"

"Because you're insane?" Kjarl offered.

"Well, yes. But also, this was the only way I could speak to you in person. There exist magical barriers between Mundus and Oblivion, and these are what keep the Daedra in Oblivion. The Nchunzdehark, however, had the ability to open holes in these barriers. Holes so large, even a Daedric Prince could enter Tamriel."

Anterriel frowned. "That's impossible. There is no way portals between Oblivion and Tamriel could exist."

"You have no idea," Sheogorath said, glancing over at his copy of _The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion _sitting on a nearby tree stump.

"Does this story have a point?" S'Ravha asked.

"Yes. None of the records of the Dunmer make any mention of the Nchunzdehark. It was believed that the Dwemer got rid of it as soon as they realized what it was capable of doing. But recently, we have discovered that they could not destroy it. So instead, they buried it, and built one of their citadels over top of it, to keep anyone from ever discovering it. This citadel is the ruins of Arkngthunch-Sturdumz, in the north of Vvardenfell.

"It has recently come to the attention of one Molag Bal that the Nchunzdehark rests beneath Arknghtunch-Sturdumz. Even as we speak, he is amassing an army of lesser Daedra, formed from souls offered to him by followers like Relthasa Noren, to march on Arknghtunch-Sturdumz, find the Nchunzdehark, and activate it. Molag Bal wishes to enter Tamriel himself, so that he may reap the souls of every living being in Tamriel with his own hands."

"So _that's _what they wanted with Stoncien Draconius," Kjarl said.

"Indeed. My fellow Princes do not want this to happen. Azura wants him stopped, because of her love of the Dunmer. Malacath wants him stopped, for fear that once he has satisfied himself with Morrowind, he will move against Orsinium. Meridia wants him stopped, because she regards the very concept of his plans as an abomination. Sanguine wants him stopped, because he has seen Molag Bal's plane of Oblivion. It's a very boring place, without so much as a decent cup of coffee, and he doesn't want Tamriel to end up the same way. Boethiah wants him stopped, because the very thought of Molag Bal getting what he wants fills Boethiah with unbearable pain. Clavicus Vile wants him stopped, because he made a bet with Molag Bal that he'd be unable to do it. Even Mehrunes Dagon wants him stopped, although it's largely for selfish, Mehrunes Dagon-ish reasons that he refused to elaborate upon…something about wanting Tamriel all for himself, or something."

"What about you?" Anterriel asked.

Sheogorath examined his fingernails. "Quite frankly, I'm not affected whether Molag Bal is stopped or not. But I really want to see if it can be done. That is why the rest of the Princes elected to have me talk to you. Because I am the only one who would suggest something as clearly insane as what I am about to tell you." He sat down, facing the mortals. "You three are to go to Arkngthunch-Sturdumz. There, you must hold off the armies of Molag Bal. By yourselves."

There was a silence. A very long silence. It was finally broken by Kjarl laughing, softly at first, but quickly escalating into a deep belly laugh.

"Oh, you – you really had me going there for a second! Is this – are there – am I being Screw'd?" he chortled, referring to a festival to Sanguine in which his followers played secret practical jokes on unsuspecting individuals in front of large crowds of people.

S'Ravha and Anterriel nudged Kjarl into looking at Sheogorath. His jovial expression had completely vanished, and had been replaced with the Death Glare from Hell.

"I'm not in the business of making jokes, Kjarl," he said. "That's Sanguine's job."

Kjarl's smile instantly evaporated. "Right…"

"So, why do we have to do it?" S'Ravha asked.

"Indeed," Anterriel said. "You just mentioned seven other Daedra in whose best interest it would be for Molag Bal to fail. Why can't _they _do anything?"

"Well, Clavicus Vile can't do anything, as that would pretty much screw up his wager. Trust me. I tried to cheat on a bet with Azura once. I thought I'd never hear the end of it."

"Okay," Anterriel said, "but what about the rest of them? I'd think Boethiah and Mehrunes Dagon alone would be enough to keep Molag Bal down."

Sheogorath laughed and shook his head. "You're asking for a war among the Princes of Oblivion. Well, sure, I could find a way to instigate one of those. Would probably mean the complete and utter destruction of the entire world, though."

"…I see," Anterriel finally said after a pause.

"But that still doesn't explain why we have to do it alone!" Kjarl shouted.

"Well," Sheogorath said, "Boethiah did want to send some warriors to Arkngthunch-Sturdumz. Unfortunately, the only known shrine to Boethiah in Morrowind was lost to the Inner Sea centuries ago."

"Okay, but you can't expect three of us to be able to fight off all the armies of Molag Bal," Anterriel said. "That would be…insane!"

"Hello!? Have you forgotten who you're dealing with? I'm Sheogorath! Of _course _it'd be insane! That's why I'm having you do it!!" Sheogorath took several deep breaths, before grinning broadly. "So, any further questions?"

"Yes," S'Ravha said. " 'The Drink?' Why not 'the sludge' or 'the vile brew from Hell?'"

"No," Sheogorath said, gesturing to another table with three bottles. "The Vile Brew from Hell is what you have to drink to get back to your bodies."

**X X X**

S'Ravha slowly sat up. He was back in the shrine. Anterriel and Kjarl were slowly waking up.

"You're back!" the priest exclaimed gleefully. "So? What did Lord Sheogorath want?"

S'Ravha massaged his throbbing head. "I think he wants us to go to Arkngthunch-Sturdumz and fight off the armies of Molag Bal. By ourselves."

"So it wasn't a hallucination?" Kjarl asked. "Damn. I was hoping I'd be able to ignore it."

"Excellent!" The priest seemed about to explode with excitement. "Well, have fun with that!"

S'Ravha stood up. "S'Ravha is not sure you heard him. He said that the three of us must fight the armies of Molag Bal. _By ourselves. _Notice how S'Ravha is putting emphasis on the words _BY OURSELVES!_"

"That's fantastic!"

Anterriel shook her head. "Can you at least tell us where Arkngthunch-Sturdumz is?"

The priest pointed at the door. "Out there."

"Right," Kjarl said. "That's it. We're getting out of this nuthouse."

"No you're not," the priest said, pulling out his katanas again.

"Look," Anterriel said, "we need to get out of here to fulfill Sheogorath's wishes, so you really must move."

The priest twirled his swords menacingly.

Anterriel narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at the priest. "_Cess oht meht ekhem, tayem oht, meht ekhem._" The katanas flew from the priest's hands and landed in Anterriel's. "Now then, you were saying?"

The priest blinked several times, before opening the door. "Good luck. Hope Molag Bal doesn't steal your souls!"

(Believe it or not, I actually had this idea long before _Oblivion _came out. Please review.)


End file.
